Thursday and the Hunter
by wrongpuppy
Summary: "The very touch of you corrupts. When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost!" Filling in the blanks. Going to dark places. Hell, resurrection, anguish, love, and all the feels that come in between. Castiel raises Dean from Perdition and sees more than intended. M for Mature content, language, violence, disturbing imagery. Destiel.
1. Chapter 1: Far From This Forever More

_Chapter 1: Far From This…Forever More_

Castiel, Angel of Thursday, so-called Angel of Solitude, wheeled right, the billowing heat of Hell ripping at his wings, providing enough updraft that he easily dodged the claws of a demon that had launched itself from the battlements. Glancing left, he saw his battalion taking on a wave of the newly possessed. Baby demons. The recently turned were vicious with their anger and emptiness, but not powerful enough to walk the Earth. Not just yet. But their talons were strong and their teeth were dyed crimson with the hanging strings of masticated viscera, and he knew that their battle would be a losing one if they did not make their move soon.

Shouting to Uriel, his bell-like voice was thinned by the brimstone in the air, but clear nonetheless. "Hold the line!"

He pumped his wings furiously upward, climbing hard into the air above the last wall. Below, he saw Balthazar take a hard strike to his shoulder, the body of light flickering briefly, telegraphing his brother's pain. Castiel wanted to feel sympathy, but now was not the time. Now may be their only chance.

Sword brandished high, he dove, tucking his wings tight to drop like a stone. His fall angled towards his brother's attacker, and in one move, he skewered the forsaken creature from skull to sternum.

"Go, Castiel! Go!" Balthazar sang out, his form once again a solid spear of light. "We're going to fight them off! End this!"

With barely a nod, Castiel threw himself from the final wall, and dove again, streaking into the maze of chains and savagery within Hell's most fortified meat grinder. _All of this, for one man?_ A righteous man, to be sure. The Lord would not send them on a fool's errand; he knew that without a doubt in his soul. _But, one man._

Angel of Solitude. It seemed fitting that his final task be undertaken alone. He had fought this battle so long, so feverishly, that he almost felt that sick hint of pride that it would be him, _him_, to raise the righteous man from this darkness. But pride was blasphemous, and in this place, blasphemy would get him killed. As a rogue entity, he knew it would be quicker, more practical, to locate the target of his mission on his own, drawing less attention to himself while his brethren kept the devilish masses occupied in battle.

He snapped his wings open, halting his dead fall, and shifted swiftly to avoid one of the corroded metal stages piled high with bodies. Bodies, which had been ripped open, lapped up and spat out for the day. Bodies that would soon be reanimated and forced to face a new day of torture, and then another, and another, a twisted cycle that would no doubt wound their souls beyond repair. His eyes flicked briefly over the rotting detritous, but he knew he would not find his charge here. There was a call, a beacon in the centre of his being that drew him onwards, down, and down, and down.

He shot through Hell like a falling star, and soon he felt a quickening in his bones. _There._

Castiel could see him. The man was naked, sallow skin painted in blackened blood and gore. He stood erect before a wailing victim, his body still showing signs of being long limbed and well muscled, with his fingers buried in its throat, fingers curling up into the streaked and ruined mouth. He was tugging at the jaw, and it looked like the victim was being forced to speak, like a sick pantomime of puppetry. Castiel's brows knitted together, and he felt a great sadness skim across his being. He understood the concept of sadness. And pity.

Beating his wings hard, he alighted on the dais, aware that a demonic presence was suspiciously lacking in this scene. Where was the Overseer? The one who had broken the man? Without waiting to find out, he strode forward, his bright form illuminating every surface, casting away the shadows.

"Dean Winchester," he crooned, moving forward towards his prize.

The righteous man seemed to flinch, and he halted his mocking of the tortured soul, but he did not remove his hands from its throat.

Castiel cocked his head to one side, and called again. "Dean Winchester."

It looked as though the man might be muttering to himself, his head shaking back and forth, but the angel could not make out any of the words.

"He hasn't heard that name for a long, long time," a voice purred from behind him.

Castiel spun around and found himself staring at the demon who had beaten his righteous man. The creature's face was a puzzle of infection and poorly healed scars. He grinned at the angel, revealing that his teeth had been shattered into jagged fangs. "It's too late, you know," the demon said, amicably. If he was concerned about confronting Heaven's ambassador, he did not show it. "About ten years too late, by my estimate. Such a pity, you and your family coming all this way to die for nothing."

Castiel's grace flared bright and baleful, and the demon shrank back almost imperceptibly. "He is now in the custody of the Lord. You shall not be allowed to harm him any further," he growled, the melody of his celestial voice darkening into the bass rumble of a pipe organ.

The broken mouth resumed its grin, and the demon let out a nasty laugh. "Oh, you sweet little tin soldier, have you no eyes? I haven't had to harm our precious Dean for nigh on a decade," he rasped, leaning in confidentially. "He does it so well on his own." The milk-pale eyes glistened malevolently, and the lips twisted into a cruel grin.

The angel could feel his skin igniting, his form shining with a cleansing fire that bespoke the deep rage that he could not hide. The demon, alarmed, took a hasty step backwards as Castiel advanced.

"_You_," he spoke, his tone hard and piercing enough to shatter glass. "Be gone."

Though no specific threat was issued, the demon innately knew that his game was over if he wanted to live to vivisect another day. In the blink of an eye, the creature disappeared. Castiel felt a grim satisfaction, and turned back to his charge.

The righteous man had still not turned away from his victim, and it seemed like he was trying to pull the jaw again, making a mockery of the corpse comforting him, though his was the only voice now. Listening carefully, the angel realized that there were no words to it. The man was making small animal noises and muttering gibberish, swaying his head back and forth. As the angel approached him, he became more agitated, almost huddling against the corpse for a safe haven.

"Dean Winchester," Castiel said softly, more gently than he had intended, "I have come for you."

He reached out, placing a hand on the man's shoulder.

That moment where he first touched Dean Winchester, it was as though a bolt of electricity went through him, and Castiel let out a startled gasp. The man's soul was… It was like nothing he'd ever felt before. It was as though shards of the man broke away, splintering under his touch, stabbing knives through his palm, and he was struck by its unabashed purity.

It was dark, yes. _Dark like a raging engine wrapped in black steel, heralded by thunder and promising divine retribution._ It was broken. _Broken by a thousand moments of loss and betrayal, each one felt to its perfect acuity, categorized, memorized, worshipped, and buried._ It was heavy. _Heavy with the weight of shame and the failed souls that had prayed and suffered through evils that were beyond any earthly reckoning, souls that had suffered and died when he had not proven himself strong enough._ But it was held together with a blinding, brilliant, frightening devotion. Compassion. Loyalty. Love…

_Love._ In his heart, Castiel was sure he had felt love before; he loved his Father with his entire being. It was intrinsic; no angel could exist without it. But this man's love? It was freely given. It was fierce. It was constant, despite the pain and anguish that such a love invited. It was terrible in its beauty, raw and wild. How could any being in Heaven or on Earth ever stand the strength of such a feeling? How could anyone survive it? The angel had never felt a love like this. And it hurt. Heavenly Father, it _hurt!_

Castiel's hand burned into the man's skin, still exuding its holy fire, but Dean's soul burned back into him in turn. That awesome strength seared its wounds into the angel's grace, as though daring the heavenly creature to deny its power. As the righteous man screamed in pain, Castiel found himself openly weeping, gasping in shock. _What is this man? Who? Who is this man?_

The sullied body slumped forward and crumpled to the ground as Castiel fell to his knees beside him. The connection had been instantaneous, barely covering the blink of an eye, but the angel finally managed to snatch away his hand with a strangled cry. Dean Winchester, his mission, his righteous man, involuntarily curled up into a foetal position on his side, whimpering and shivering. For a moment, the angel could only stare down at his charge.

Castiel had never questioned his orders to pull the man's soul out of Hell. That would have been inconceivable. Angels did not question. Until this very moment, however, he had not _wanted_ to save him. Angels did not _want_ anything. Castiel followed orders, did as he was told, ever perfect. Now? He looked down into Dean's eyes, green as grass and fever-bright, and he wanted nothing more than to alleviate this soul's suffering and carry him to safety.

"Dean," he murmured, "I've come to save you." He began to reach out to pick up the wounded soul, surprised when the man winced and shrank away from his touch.

"Please," he moaned, "please, don't hurt me anymore."

"W-what?" Castiel had never, in all his existence, been lost for words.

"I'm sorry," Dean whimpered, his voice carrying a wealth of fear and distress. "Please, I'm sorry. I'll do better. I'll be good. I'll be so good. Please, just don't hurt me anymore."

The angel only knew what anguish was because his Father had left them all alone, far too long ago, and he felt it now, for this human soul. He reached out, purposefully, and gathered Dean into his arms. The overwhelming invasion of the human's soul did not reoccur, a fact for which Castiel was both grateful and, oddly enough, disappointed. Dean attempted to struggle free from his grasp, but no man could break an angel's embrace.

"No one will hurt you, Dean," Castiel said firmly. "I will not let them. Hell shall never hurt you again."

With that, the angel let his massive wings unfurl, and he launched himself into the air. Up. They had to go up. Up and out. As he bore his human charge out of the Pit, Dean twisted and squirmed in his arms, his eyes wide with fear. Although he was only a soul, Castiel could still feel the rapid thrumming of his heart against his ribcage.

"It is all right, Dean," he breathed, pounding his wings against the air. Hell was no place for this man.

Dean wailed, a lost and hollow sound, slamming his skull against Castiel's shoulder and chest, fighting him. His eyes were unfocused, and he did not seem to understand what was going on. Did not understand the soothing words that the angel whispered as they soared. Confused, Castiel held tighter and fought the weight of the sulphuric winds. Up and out. Up and out. No demon dared to impede his climb, the holy fire burning around the angel's frame, lighting up the dark places of Perdition. Yet, still, Dean fought him, panicked and delirious. His rough voice creeled and crooned fearfully into the angel's chest.

"It will be all right, Dean," Castiel said, breathing harshly as their forms rose. "You have been saved."

Dean only flapped his hands in front of his face, as though to fend off an attack. "No! Please! No, don't! Please! Please, I'm sorry!"

Gritting his teeth, Castiel pushed himself to fly faster, flames trailing behind them, leaving traces of light in their wake. At last, his frenzied wings tore them from the hands of Hell, and Castiel could see his brethren, still battling with demons and other nameless monstrosities along the outer walls.

The air stilled and it felt like the top of the world would shatter as Castiel's voice cried out with the jubilation of all the bells in Christendom. "Dean Winchester is saved!" he cried.

Below, he saw the stunned faces of his battalion, watching him as he carried the still-struggling righteous man away.

"Dean Winchester is saved!"

And for just a brief moment, Castiel knew what joy felt like.


	2. Chapter 2: Like a Sentence of Death

Chapter 2: Like a Sentence of Death

Zachariah paced outside the Green Room, consternation written on his face. "What have you brought me, little brother? You were told to rescue the righteous man," he snapped. Zachariah's chosen vessel was a sly-eyed, middle-aged man with a balding head, and his irritation was easily written into his features.

Castiel cocked his head, a study of confusion. "I have brought you Dean Winchester, whom God in His infinite wisdom decreed that we should save."

"That? That in there?" Zachariah hissed. "That is _not_ our scrappy little hunter with dirt on. That is… is.. is… Well, it's a mess!" The elder angel's voice rose in volume, and Castiel found himself hoping that it did not disturb the man caged within the Room.

Castiel, himself, had acquired his own vessel, that of a man of faith named 'Jimmy Novak.' He had not yet become accustomed to its tiny frame, the weight of skin and fragile bones. The human body felt foreign to him. At his brother's words, he felt his lithe frame square its shoulders in unspoken defiance.

Zachariah had no idea what was held inside that Green Room. He had not felt that pain, the burning light that the righteous man's soul had carried. That love, like a blow to the head, which left an angel reeling. Whatever was going on with his ward, mess though he may be, Castiel knew that Dean was _exactly_ what his garrison had set out to rescue. Unable to read Castiel's thoughts without invading privacy, Zachariah did not notice any of these sentiments as he began to pace.

"We can't return him like this," Zachariah groused. "He's probably madder than that idiot Ezekiel. They'd lock him up as soon as he opens his mouth."

"He has been wounded," Castiel said, much more quickly than he had intended. _Leaping to the defense of a human?_ Uriel would never let him hear the end of it if he found out! "He just needs to be comforted… quieted. He has been without the loving grace of Heaven all this time."

His superior's sharp eyes snapped up, staring down into Jimmy Novak's deep blue eyes. Eyes that now could convey the unquiet sea of Castiel's mind. Before he could respond, however, Uriel chose that moment to enter their presence. He had acquired the form of a man, skin as dark as the skies at dusk. Castiel tried to keep himself from smiling, knowing that his brother had chosen his vessel in order to seem more impressive and intimidating. The irony of his comedic brother taking on the guise of a human pit-bull almost made Castiel break out a chuckle, but he had too many varying senses afflicting him to allow a sign of weakness.

Uriel's black eyes took in the scene, and noted Castiel's near reaction. "It's good, no? Almost had you there, brother," he greeted. "How is our mud monkey? Is he ready for his return?"

Mud monkey. The number of times his brother had called the humans that, it was like a running joke in the garrison. So funny, because the humans had no memory of their millennia spent sporting tails and wild hair. When they had been more simple, though, they had provided no end of amusement for the angels. Now, the angels were wearing the Earthly hosts like a new set of clothes. Yes, it was ironic.

Castiel made as though to answer the inquiry, but Zachariah cut in. "He's in no fit condition to be returned. Not yet." The ire in his voice was undeniable, and Uriel's brows lifted slightly, taking in his two companions. The fox-faced general raised his hands and smirked back at the younger two. "However, since our Castiel, here, seems to think that he'll be right and well with a little… _comfort_…"

Uriel looked sharply at Castiel, and Castiel found himself beginning to lose his nerve. Whatever courage he had gained from touching Dean's soul paled in comparison to the realization that he was acting out of character. Not like himself. The Angel of Solitude knew nothing about comfort or compassion. There was a tension in the air that told him that he was now being watched with more than casual curiosity.

Zachariah smiled wider, observing the brief exchange. "…I think it should fall to him to see this through," he finished.

It was Castiel's turn to look alarmed. "W-what? No, I—"

"Are you questioning Heaven's authority?" Zachariah cut in, voice disturbingly pleasant, while his eyes stared at him, hard as gimlets.

"Sir… no, sir," Castiel backpedalled.

"As of this day, Dean Winchester is your charge, Castiel. He is solely in your care. You are to guide him towards God's great plan, and see that he follows Heaven's path. Let it be so," Zachariah intoned, his voice filling the air with the ring of iron on an anvil.

"Let it be so," Uriel and Castiel responded in kind.

Uriel was staring hard at Castiel, and Castiel felt the body of Jimmy Novak tighten up, chagrined. At that, his brother took his leave, disappearing into the air, leaving him to face his older brother alone.

Zachariah moved in closer until their noses were nearly touching. "Calm his mind, then, Thursday," he said, his voice cold and unforgiving. "We don't have much time."

And with that, he was gone, leaving Castiel to stand, bewildered, outside of the Green Room. What was this human going to cost him?


	3. Chapter 3: All My Sorrow, All My Rage

_Chapter 3: All My Sorrow, All My Rage_

Castiel could not muffle the dry rustle of his wings as he moved into the walls of the Green Room. He could see Dean, still naked, but thankfully scoured clean of the blood and grime that had clung to his skin in caked-on layers. The man was standing, huddled up against the far wall, facing into a corner and hugging himself as he rocked back and forth. He emerald eyes were open, staring, but not really registering the opulence around him. He looked so lost. His face was nearly grey, shadowed by the horror that he had been forced to survive. His lips moved silently. Whatever words he was trying to form, the angel could not discern.

Unsure of his course, Castiel began to move gingerly towards his righteous man. Unconsciously, he flexed his right hand, which somehow still seemed to tingle from his first contact with the human's soul. He moved until he was in arm's reach of the man and paused. _What do I do? I have never…comforted…anyone…_

"Dean," he said.

At the sound of his name, the man's head snapped up, his eyes anxious and clear. Castiel watched as the pupils dilated, listened as the breath in his soul's lungs quickened. He held out a hand to the man, palm up, fingers splayed open. As he reached forward, the man flinched away.

"Don't touch me!" he cried out, voice so hoarse from hours of screaming that it barely came out in a squeak.

"Dean, it's-"

"-Stay away!" There was naked fear in the man's eyes, and he curled his arms tighter around himself, trying to make himself small against the wall. "Please! I'm sorry! I don't know what I did wrong! I was doing it. I was doing it. I was doing… doing good. I was doing really good. I'm sorry," he panted, eyes looking around wildly. "I didn't mean to fuck up again. I'll do better. I'm doing so much better now."

The body of Jimmy Novak afforded Castiel a new experience in sensation as he felt his heart lurch, and wet heat burned into his eyes, forcing him to blink. _What is this? What should I do?_ "It's alright now, Dean," he said. It was a statement of fact. There was nothing to fear now. Castiel had saved him. "I have saved you. Hell no longer holds your soul ransom. You are freed from bondage."

Dean's eyes clouded over with confusion, and then realization blossomed on his face. His shaking stilled and he slowly drew himself up to its full height. _Why did I have to choose a vessel that's so much smaller? I am looking up to a human._ Castiel felt satisfaction rising in his own heart. His words were working. The righteous man was coming back to himself.

It was then that a sharp light seemed to glint in Dean's eyes, and he cocked his head, studying the angel. "Ohhhh. Oh, I get it now," the man rasped softly. His expression changed then, to one that Castiel could not quite define. It was something akin to the way a snake looked at a leveret. It was unsettling, even to an Angel of the Lord. _This is not right. Something's not right._

"I get it," Dean repeated, moving inches closer to Castiel. "This is a test."

There were no words for Castiel's confusion. _What?_

The man's hands moved, so fast that there was no time to block or react. Suddenly, Dean had snatched up the angel by his tie and collar, and Castiel felt the air expel from his lungs as he was slammed down onto the conference table. Surprised, the angel's eyes looked up at the man in alarm. There was a feral look to Dean, a twist to his full lips that was decidedly predatory as he began to grin.

"And Alastair found me a pretty one, didn't he?" he rumbled, his voice vibrating into his fresh victim's bones.

"Dean! No! This is not a test!" Castiel tried to stop him with a firm tone. What was happening? This was all wrong. Dean's hands stroked down his chest, sensual and yet, somehow, sinister in their ministrations. "No! You're not in Hell anymore, Dean!"

There was a mirthless chuckle coming from the man as he leaned down, nuzzling his stubbled chin against the angel's neck. The warm breath wafted against Castiel's cool skin, and for a moment, just a moment, the ancient host's mind went blank and he forgot what he had been trying to say. Nothing in his eons of existence had disarmed him so quickly as this intimate moment, where the human breathed in his scent. The sensation sent sparks down his nerves and lit up the synapses in his vessel's brain, causing him to shudder slightly. _By all the Powers in Heaven, O Father, my Father, what is this?_

"N-not… Not in Hell," Castiel struggled to repeat.

The hollow laugh came again, and Dean squinted, grinning down at him, powerful and predatory. "You really think I'm going to fall for that?" he growled.

The man's hands dexterously tangled themselves into Castiel's shirt, tugged, and ripped it open, exposing skin so pale it was nearly translucent. Castiel had never felt conscious about his body; the concept of shame was unheard of in Heaven. Angels would sometimes tryst with each other as a way of forming a kind of connection to one another. There was an innocent pleasure to the act, always leaving both parties sated and at peace. With no need for procreation, the carnal act that afflicted so many humans on Earth was little more than a formality to the Heavenly hosts. So, when Dean's eyes finally raked him over, taking on a look somewhere between longing and malice, Castiel was unprepared. His blue eyes widened, seeing the man's penis beginning to harden at the sight of him. Totally unprepared when his vessel's body began to react in turn.

Dean was speaking again, and Castiel had to remind himself that he should not be aroused by this, or by the man's voice. "Any other stories you wanna spin here, before I open you up and jack off with your entrails?" he said, as though he were humouring the angel. "Wanna tell me you know the way out? Hm?" His fingers trailed down the length of his captive's chest, Castiel's vessel reacting, his skin prickling and lighting up under the feather-light touch. "If I just let you go, you'll show me the way? Or, maybe, you wanna try telling me that I'll see Sammy again?"

Dean leaned down, lips parting and circling around one of Castiel's nipples, and sucked. The heat of the man's mouth on his skin undid him, like links of a chain cracking, shearing and breaking apart, and the angel couldn't remember how to speak for a moment. He wanted to respond somehow, but for some reason his throat only managed to eke out a short squeak, then his breath hitched and he gasped, shuddering. Dean's tongue licked slowly around his nipple, kissing it softly. Then he clamped down with his jaw, and began to bite and pull with the hot suction of his cracked lips. It was almost gentle at first, increasing slowly in pressure until Castiel registered that this would be causing his vessel pain. Pain… And pain was bad, right? It wouldn't be anything but… bad… It felt like his dark slacks were becoming oddly constricting, he managed to bring up his hands to push the human off of him.

"Stop! Dean, stop this!" he snapped. His voice lacked conviction, though. _What is wrong with me? What am I doing?!_

He succeeded in lifting Dean's head off his torso, only to see a fey look on his ward's face. Deep in the pale light of those green eyes, there was such a lost and hopeless look. No light burned there for that moment, and all he could find in their depths was emptiness. Cold, despairing emptiness. Castiel was at a loss as to how to proceed.

"Dean," he hesitated. "Dean you need to listen to me."

He had never asked anyone to listen. Never. There was no idea that he had ever needed to convey with words, certainly none that would ever be greeted with interest. Even saying them out loud, the sentiment sounded strange to the angel. The wounded eyes met his for a moment. _How does one execute 'compassion' as an imperative command?_

"You need to calm yourself," he breathed.

At that, the darkness fell over his man again, and Dean swung his arm to backhand him. Again, the angel had not predicted this move, and his head snapped sideways with the force of the blow. Dean lunged in, fingers raking down his torso, ragged nails digging into his flawless flesh as he sank his teeth into a soft spot just to the side of Castiel's ribs. The angel arched with pain. _It's just pain. Not a 'good' pain. This… this does not feel good. I think. Not good. No… I think. This… this is not what I am supposed to be doing._

"I _need_… Ha! What I need…" Dean's voice fluttered through the air like a frantic bird. His hand began clawing at Castiel's tender stomach, his hips, his pants. His mouth sucked and bit into him. It was as though the man was trying to claw his way inside the angel's vessel. "What I need… is _in._ I want in. Let me in. You want this, trust me," he grated. The man was fully erect, and he was grinding himself against Castiel savagely. "I want. Inside. You want this, you've always wanted this." The man's words were coming fast and anxious, and his intent was not directed at Castiel. The angel wondered if he even knew that he was there.

Castiel's long, white fingers reached out, grabbing for Dean's head, and burying themselves in the man's hair. He let his body struggle under brute force of his ward, trying to think of what he should do about this. Trying to ignore the internal alarms that were ringing out from his body, begging for him to respond in some way, either by fighting… by fleeing… or…

"Calm down, Dean Winchester," he bleated, concerned that he was becoming just as confused as his charge.

The man's words washed over him, mixing with the hard sensation of his cock rutting against Castiel's crotch and his fingers and mouth invading his space further, and with such a deep need as the angel had never encountered. "You want me inside you. It's safe when I'm inside. You can keep screaming. You go on and keep telling me 'no.' But I know what you want. I know what you need. Let me in. I want in. I want. I…"

_This cannot go on._ Castiel grabbed a handful of the sandy hair and wrenched the man's head back, planting his other palm firmly over his ward's face.

"Be still!" he commanded, his angelic voice ringing within the confines of the room like a bell.

Dean's eyes widened in fear, and his hands immediately ceased their seeking as he tried to jerk himself away. But Castiel held him, fixing him with a determined gaze. The angel's body was shaking, still begging silently for something. Something more. Something deeper. Something _wrong._

"Fear not," he growled softly, using his vessel's human voice. "The Lord is with thee." An old line, but a good one nonetheless.

The man's expression morphed from fear to near panic, and he emitted a broken sob. This time, when he fought to pull himself away, Castiel let him go. Dean scrambled back from the table and collapsed to his knees. His body shook silently. As Castiel sat up slowly, he could see the man's cheeks were wet with tears.

_How do you stop tears? I told him there was nothing to fear. What's wrong?_ Unsure of what he should do, Castiel eased himself down from the table and knelt down in front of Dean. He wanted to touch the man, but somehow he understood that this was not the time to do so. He waited in silence, watching as the man's body was wracked with silent grief.

He was not certain how long he waited, but after some time the righteous man put his hands over his face, balling them into fist, and began grinding them into his own eyes. A wet, heavy breath was pulled into his lungs and held there by a grimace. Dean rocked slowly for a few moments, and finally released. He looked up at Castiel; eyes finally clear for the first time.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice thick with sorrow. He unconsciously scrubbed his face clean of the tears with the back of his hand.

"I'm an Angel of the Lord. My name is Castiel."

The man sighed and his breath caught in his chest. "Angel?"

"Of the Lord. Yes," Castiel said, being careful not to move lest he break this tremulous connection with the man's sanity.

Dean's eyes flicked around the room, obviously bewildered by his surroundings. "Where am I?"

"You are in the Green Room. We are keeping you here until you are ready."

There was an immediate suspicion in the righteous man's face. "Ready? Ready for what?"

"For your return," Castiel said simply.

He was not expecting Dean's response, which was to bolt up and rabbit away from him. Castiel rose quickly, seeing Dean breaking for the far wall, feeling along the tapestries and wood trimming for something. _A door…_

"To the block?!" Dean yelped, watching Castiel like he was something dangerous while he frantically tried to find some way out. "You're taking me back down?"

The angel began to respond that yes, he would be returned down to Earth, but his instincts told him to wait. _What's the block?_

"'S this some kinda sick game? Somethin' new to screw with me?! Huh?" The man was becoming agitated once again. "Yer just messin' with my head again, making me think I'm outta Hell so you can see my face when I'm back on the rack? Huh? 'S that it?!" he shouted.

"Dean," Castiel cut in. "You're in _Heaven._ My name is Castiel. I rescued you. I pulled you out of the hellfire. I am returning you to Earth!" he tried to explain.

The man stopped moving around the room, but kept his back against the wall. His stance was one of someone expecting that he would have to fight. He scowled hard at the angel. Then the words seemed to sink in, and he cocked his head to one side, brows coming together.

"You're saying… I'm in _Heaven_ right now?" he asked, blinking rapidly.

"Yes. We rescued you. I carried you out myself," Castiel said. Why did his heart have to quicken at that admission. Unconsciously, he flexed his right hand.

There was a moment of silence, and it almost seemed like the man could not bring himself to believe in his good fortune. Then something passed over his face, some shadow, some unspoken pain. And just as quickly, it vanished, and the green eyes that looked up at him were cold, decided.

"You shouldn't'a done that," he rasped, voice as hard as gravel.

There were no words for Castiel's confusion. He did not understand. There was no question, his orders had been clear. Dean Winchester _must_ be saved. There was work for him to do. Even if Castiel had dared to contemplate the right and wrong of his actions, a sin that he would never, ever commit, he would have found them to be the right conclusion. Dean Winchester was a righteous man. He had never belonged in Hell. The angel squinted across the room at the man, trying to run the last words through his head, dissecting them, rearranging them, and still concluding that they made no sense. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, watching his charge. This man was like nothing he had ever seen, on Earth or in Heaven.

"Of course I had to," Castiel replied evenly. "It was decreed by the highest authority of Heaven. We could not go against the will of God."

Dean's head ducked in a slow shake with his chin. "All the same," he muttered, his mouth quirking to the side wryly.

"There is work for you, Dean. You are needed on Earth," Castiel said.

Dean crossed his arms in front of his chest, leaning back into the wall. His expression was heavily guarded. "Yeah, y'mentioned. But aren't I dead? 'S'nt that put sort of a kink in your plans?"

At that, Castiel had to stop himself from smiling. The man was funny. "Surely you are familiar with Heaven's dealings with death," he said. "We are perfectly capable of bringing a soul back to life."

"Yeah? Like brain eating, blood spewing, shuffling kinda life?"

Castiel frowned again. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Like am I gonna have all parts workin', or is this some kind of a sick joke and you're just gonna use me like a mindless meat puppet for your divine pleasure?" The man seemed to smile as he said it, and then his expression took on that shadow again. Something dark, beneath the surface of his calm exterior.

"You will be fully in control of your body and soul, Dean," Castiel reassured him. "Heaven would have it so."

The man scoffed and pushed away from the wall slowly, walking towards the angel with halting steps. He moved until he was a few feet away from Castiel, looking down into his blue eyes.

"And you're sure that's a good plan?" he asked.

Castiel studied him pensively. He had seen that ravaged look in his human's eyes. Even though the man's soul was laid bare, quite literally, before him, he could sense that there was a wealth of suffering that was seething deep inside of him. And yet, even so, he could see Dean Winchester putting on a brave face. Joking. Steadying himself and his situation. Adapting. If there was ever something he was sure of, it was that Dean should be under the power of his own heart and mind. No lock, no geis, could hold him down.

"I have faith in you, Dean Winchester," the angel said softly. A small part of him quailed as he spoke those words, warning him that it was wrong to put that trust in a human. Only the Lord, their Heavenly Father, was worthy of an angel's faith. If Uriel found out… or Zachariah… That he had said it… "I believe that you are ready."

Dean gulped. "Wait, uh… You mentioned work. What… What exactly do I have to do?"

"I'm sorry, Dean. I do not have that information, and you will not remember this conversation when you awaken. All will reveal itself in due time," Castiel said, hoping that he sounded reassuring.

"You kiddin' me?"

"I do not know what kidding is, Dean," the angel said simply. He lifted his hand up to touch Dean's forehead.

Skittish, Dean dodged away a few steps, backing up slowly. "W-wait. But how will I know what to do? What's going on? How'm I gonna—"

"—You will not be alone, Dean. I will be watching over you. I will not allow you to come to any harm."

By now, the man had backed himself into the wall again, and Castiel moved in until he could feel the heat of the man's skin radiating into his own vessel's bare chest. For one second, the angel suddenly wanted nothing more than take the man into his arms again. To hold him, soothe away that shadow… To let him continue making his vessel's body feel so… uncomfortable… But now, there was no time.

"Yeah?" Dean said, unaware of the angel's affliction. "You'll be watchin' out for me?"

"Yes, I shall."

"Promise?" the man said, with timorous voice.

Castiel felt a small tightening within his chest, and he could not help but remember that feeling of pure love and devotion that the man's soul had revealed to him. He did not quite smile, but he took in the weary face of his charge, and he nodded. "I promise," the angel said.

Nodding in a show of satisfaction, Dean sighed and straightened up. He jutted out his chin and lifted his eyes upward. "Alright," he sighed heavily. "Do it. Zombify me."

Castiel extended two alabaster fingers up towards his forehead. "I'll see you on the other side," he whispered.

With that, the man's soul was gone. And for the second time since Castiel had been dreamed into existence, he felt an aching void, a swirling emptiness inside his grace.

There was a cool flutter of wings, and the Green Room was again empty.


	4. Chapter 4: Darkness Deep in My Soul

Warnings: Sooo there's a bit of violence, and emotional/physical/sexual abuse contained in this chapter and the next. Fair warning.

Disclaimer: In case anyone was wondering, no, I don't own anything even remotely related to Supernatural and its characters. I'm fairly certain we're all aware of that fact. Yes? Good! Please continue.

* * *

_Chapter 4: A Darkness Living Deep in My Soul_

He had pieced the hunter's body together again, rebuilding and readying the vessel for the soul's return, scraping away the putrefaction and stringing the atrophied muscles back onto the bones. He'd strengthened the frame and scoured the scars away… Although the reddened blister of his own hand, present by the grace of God, would not be erased like the evidence of damages past. He paused in his work, taking in the sight. It was his own hand that had marked the righteous man, a permanent reminder of that moment, in the darkness of Hell. _A darkness disbursed by that awesome light… That terrible love…_

Castiel watched the grave carefully, feeling Dean's soul fighting the resurrection like a drowning man fighting the unrelenting riptide carrying him out to sea. Wild thoughts and memories flew through the air, assembling slowly; reminding each other which one was where in what order. He could see them drifting like ghosts behind the righteous man's consciousness. Moving closer, his celestial form allowed him to phase into the coffin, and he wrapped unseen arms around the corpse, attempting to provide his charge with some kind of anchor.

He watched, patiently as the memories became clearer, one by one.

* * *

~ 1983 ~

_ He was four years old, and Daddy was crying. He was crying a lot now, always staring down at him and Sammy when he thought that Dean was asleep, cuddled up to his baby brother inside his crib. He would drink his Daddy Juice that Dean was not allowed to have, and just cry. Sometimes Daddy would ask him why he wasn't talking anymore, but Dean couldn't tell him._

_ There was always fire in his head when he tried to sleep. Only Sammy made the nightmares go away, because he was small, and couldn't talk or ask him anything. Dean wanted Mommy to come back from the angels and sing to him... But for some reason that fire made her go away. Daddy never sang. He just cried. Dean tried not to cry too, because he didn't want to be a big baby like Sammy. But… sometimes, when Daddy's breath started to be softer, quieter, he would press his face into his brother's comfort blankie and let tears fall out of his eyes._

_ But he wouldn't tell Daddy about that._

* * *

~ Hell ~

_ Sometimes Hell was colder than a witch's tit, and he'd been around a few witches, so he could attest to that fact. It was harder when it was this cold. Someone would always come along eventually and crank up the heat, and then it would be fire and it would be fever and it would be blood. But in the cold, like this, every muscle ached from constantly shivering, and his head hurt from the vibrating chatter of his teeth._

_ Sammy had been here, not too long ago. Talking to him. Telling him that he had come to rescue him. That he'd found a way to get him out. It had hurt to see his little brother's face, big, sweet, earnest eyes staring at him, pleading with him to trust him. That gaze hurt more than the frostbite blackening his fingers and toes. Hurt more than the wooden stakes that were pinned into his lungs. More than the places where his bones had fractured from his violent twisting against an unyielding set of restraints._

_ He had felt that agony and fear of seeing his brother enough times now that he was pretty sure it couldn't be real. Sam was never going to come and get him. He couldn't. And shouldn't. 'S the way it had to be. If there was one place where Sammy didn't belong, it was here._

_ So he'd stared down the form of his brother, body taught with the strain of fighting the elements. "Wha' d-d-d-did'joo do… P-p-p-penny Marckle… Ssss-s-ssix grade?" he forced himself to say, mouth barely able to form the words._

_ There was a moment of confusion on his brother's visage, and his dewy eyes flashed with panic. "Oh, I…" And, lacking imagination and an answer, the demon hesitated. Dean tried to tell his heart not to sink in disappointment, that he had known it wasn't Sammy all along, and that he hadn't been stupid enough to get his hopes up._

_ "Sss-s-s'wha' I t-t-t-thought. F-f-ffffuck off!" Dean barked, feeling his ribs constricting against their use. Hard to breathe. So cold._

_ "You're not very quick to trust, are you? Not even your own brother?" Alistair murmured slowly by his ear. His tormentor, ever present, ever devious, appeared, standing next to Dean, wearing little more than a gruesome grin. "I'm beginning to think, my dear boy, that I may have been going about this all wrong. But I think I know what I can do to fix it…"_

* * *

~ 1985 ~

_ He was six years old that day, and Sammy was hopping excitedly while he made sure that his teeth were brushed. He helped his brother into his pull-ups and then dressed him for the cold. Sammy was going to go to the baby daycare, and today it was just him and Dad._

_ When they got to the daycare, Dean made Sammy hold his hand while they toddled from the Impala to the low building across the parking lot. A nice lady that Dad said was 'alright' took Sammy up in her arms._

_ "Wave bye to Da-da," the lady cooed._

_ Sammy started to fuss as they turned away, and he began crying._

_ "Dee! Noooooo!" he cried out._

_ Dean, feeling guilty for trying to leave, turned and ran back to his brother. Dad stood, waiting patiently. He collected Sammy from the lady, and he hugged him._

_ "It's okay, Sammy," he said. He was older; he knew everything would be fine. Dad would never let anyone bad take his brother. "Gimme kiss."_

_ The tiny boy reached up to hug him and planted a kiss on his cheek._

_ "Now, don't cry, Sammy. I'll be back soon. We'll come back, and we'll get you. Okay?" he murmured, trying to hide his own distress at leaving his brother._

_ The baby nodded and sighed._

_ "Dean! C'mon, Tiger. We'll be back before you know it," Dad called._

_ Dean nodded, and ushered Sammy back to the nice lady's arms. "Don't worry, Sammy. Be good okay?"_

_ "'Kay," the small voice called out._

_ As they drove away, Dean tried not to fidget in the seat, worrying about his little brother. Dad said nothing, probably too busy thinking hero thoughts to notice him shifting around. They drove out into the woods, up to a cabin. There, his father beckoned him out of the car and they moved to the Impala's trunk. Dad popped the lock, and pulled a compartment open._

_ "Now, Dean, I want you to pay attention, boy," John said, in that voice he had taken on whenever he needed Dean to be a 'big boy.' "This here? This is a gun."_

* * *

~ 1988 ~

_ He was almost ten, and Dad had left him to watch over Sammy again. Dad was on a hunt, and Dean was in charge. If only that stupid little kid would be more grateful. Dad had been gone for three days, and there wasn't much food left besides Spaghetti-O's and enough Lucky Charms for one bowl, which Dean was hoarding for himself. He hadn't gotten any yet; Lucky Charms were Sammy's favourite._

_ Breaking open the can of pasta, he set the motel room's hot plate on its highest setting in hopes that it would cook the food fast enough that Sammy wouldn't have time to think about what he actually wanted to eat. It was hard to explain to him why they couldn't have more, or couldn't have different food. The kid was smart, but he seemed to be purposefully thick when Dean tried to tell him how this was all they had, and he couldn't be picky._

_ Fifteen minutes later, Sammy was whining again and refusing the pasta. His stupid puppy-dog eyes saw right through him and spotted the box of Lucky Charms. Although he felt a moment of jealousy, Dean knew that he would never deny his brother anything if he had the power to give it to him, and he quickly capitulated. Sammy, picking up on Dean's distress, cheerfully offered him the prize toy inside._

_ Hours later, Sammy was asleep in the motel bedroom and Dean was going stir-crazy. He'd already field dressed the shotgun twice; the second time had been to stave off boredom. Sighing to himself, he looked at the clock. Just a quick excursion…? He had seen the arcade machine in the motel lobby when they had arrived, and he had been stuck inside this stinking motel suite for this entire time. Dad had warned them not to go out or open the door for anyone (or anything) until he got back. The monotony of the room was wearing on Dean's nerves, though. Just a quick excursion, then._

_ That was the night that Sammy almost died on his watch for the first time._

_ It was the last night Dean ever knowingly disobeyed his father._

_ It was the last night that Dad ever fully trusted him again._

* * *

~ Hell ~

_ Sometimes Hell was hotter than… well… Hell… Maybe he should stop trying to make analogies. It was always worse when it was this hot. Someone would always come along eventually and turn on the AC, and then it would be ice and it would be biting and it would be breaking. But in the heat, like this, there was no escaping the gut-wrenching exhaustion, the fire in his skin and in his bones and in his bowels, and blood would flow like wine from his wounds._

_ "You know, it's actually quite intriguing," Alistair murmured slowly, taking out a rubber mallet and a chisel caked in gore._

_ Dean watched him with baleful eyes, not willing to give his torturer the satisfaction of seeing him flinch. "What is, my ruggedly handsome good looks or my sexy yet arrogant demeanour?" he managed to groan. There were parts of him that were bleeding. Hands. Ribs. Feet. Parts. He'd lost track of which ones, because everything was torn open at some point or another._

_ The demon approached him and placed the chisel against the molars of his upper jaw._

_ "Something along those lines," the demon purred, slamming the hammer down._

_ Strapped as he was to the rack, there was nothing Dean could do, except attempt to bite back his anguished cry as he felt his teeth crack and shatter, sending splinters of enamel over his tongue and choking down into his throat. Stars began forming behind his eyes, a massive explosion of stellar chaos and colliding nerves, and his vision began to grey. Alistair seemed to be talking, still, but his dulcet tones sounded very, very far away. He was barely able to register that the chisel had been reposition, when his jaw clacked sideways as he lost the lower molars to a fresh blast of agony. He wanted to plead, god fuck he wanted to beg, 'no please no, please not my teeth, please no,' but he couldn't think to form words, his mouth weeping blood as it was._

_ It was a process, and time, with its sludgy, capricious nature, crawled by as, one by one, every tooth was chipped away from his jaws. Lying on his back, barely able to register anything beyond the aching wound of his face, Dean was valiantly trying not to gag on the massive globules of blood and saliva that ran from his lips and down the back of his throat, out his nose. He coughed, wet and ragged, his body chilled with nausea._

_ "Have you been paying any attention to me, Dean?" Alistair said softly into his ear. He sounded pleased with himself. "See, I think I finally cracked the code. Everyone here's been soooo… _eager_ to try to break you. And, well, we are all painfully aware of your Achilles Heel…" A twisted hand ran clawed fingers through his matted hair, and breath was hot against his cheek. Somehow, even a brush of air made Dean's swollen jaw ignite with further pain, and he found that he was making a noise, something between a moan and a gurgle. "…Sammy," the demon finished softly._

_ Anger. That rage that kept him present within himself rose up, and his eyes flashed up at his tormentor. He shouldn't talk about Sammy. He wasn't even supposed to _call_ him 'Sammy.' Only Dean got to call him 'Sammy!' If he'd any teeth left, he would have snarled at the creature. As it was, he could only manage a bubbling growl._

_ "Aw, see?" the demon said. "That's the kind of go-to, kick 'em in the teeth kind of attitude I like to see. I can tell you, precious, it really is a turn-on. And that, as I'm sure you might have guessed, brings us to the lesson for today."_

_ Lesson? What? What happened? What'd he miss? Turn on… what?_

_ "See, I think that everyone's so eager and caught up to try to use your _brother_ to hurt you. I mean, we've trotted out, what, a year's worth of Sammy's? Two years? Twenty? Oh goodness, how long have we been at this now, do you think?"_

_ Dean would be damned if he told him. Well…except that he was already damned… so… Maybe that wasn't the best choice of words now. Maybe he should try to think about something other than damnation and Hell, and pain, and the block and the rack…_

_ A hand slapped his wounded mouth, and this time Dean was unable to stop his shriek as the freshly exposed root nerves jangled within his carmine maw. "Too long, if you're not able to appreciate the pain, anymore, no? And that's just my point. You've gotten bored," Alistair explained like a jilted lover. "It's like you don't even care anymore. And you want to know my theory?"_

_ His brain screamed out 'No!' while his tongue curdled around a halting retort and his heart began to pound just a tiny bit faster. _Oh god…

_ "_I_ think that your biggest weakness isn't our little boy king, Sammy. _I _think your Achilles Heel, if I may use the Greek example again… I think it's something so deep and dark that not even your closest kin knows about it. We would have heard about it otherwise. I mean, there's been a lot of interest in the last few years, top-side, in the goings on of the Winchester brood. Any means of exploiting the three… oh sorry. The two of you. Any new ways to get under your skin, and it's like it's front page news in the next day's copy of 'Hell Beat.'_

_ "_I_ think," Alistair said, drawing himself up onto the rack, straddling Dean's chest in a way that made him more than a little uncomfortable, "that you have a secret that you don't want anyone to know. I think you're afraid of it, more than losing Sammy anymore. Because – and you can feel free to tell me if I'm right about this – your…ah… _affliction_ is so much worse. Because – let's just say it out loud now – if anyone were to find out that you thought you might be a little gay, a little bi? Well, then they would finally see how weak and disgusting you truly were…"_

_ It felt like someone had turned down the yammering of the damned and turned up the high-pitched whining feedback in some unseen speakers overhead. It felt like his bones had been flash-frozen by liquid nitrogen and he was going to explode into a hundred million bits like the T-1000. It felt like his heart had sprouted a new set of pistons and he was now in heavy overdrive. No no no no no no no no… No no no! Don't say that. Don't say it out loud. Don't make it real. Don't make it true by saying it. That was private; more private than anything. More private than the knife under his pillow. More private than the panties. No one was supposed to know that. No one was supposed to see that._

_ Alistair saw the obvious truth to his words reflected back by the expression in Dean's treacherous eyes and his smile seemed to nearly rip his face in half._

_ "I seeeee," he crooned. "And what a delicious turn of events, no? You know, Dean, there's absolutely no shame in the way you feel about the male body. It's completely natural."_

_ Somehow, the way he said it made the situation even worse. Dean had never even openly admitted it to himself. To put any words to it… to make it real… He would be ended. He couldn't possibly be fearless and deadly in the face of danger if… if he… wanted…_

_ "Shhhh, Dean, Dean, Dean, calm down boy. Now, I can see I've upset you," the demon murmured, almost kindly. "So, I've just realized what it is that I can do to make you feel more at home here."_

_ With that, the creature reached down and began to stroke his own cock, milky white eyes watching his captive with avid interest. Dean tried to struggle away in vain, he limbs and his head pinned down as they were with alternating straps and spikes. Alistair smiled wide, enjoying his prisoner's renewed distress. He brought himself up until his groin was at a level with Dean's face._

_ "Open up, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice too intimate, too kind. "You want this. You've always wanted this."_

_ He wanted to bust out from these fucking restraints and fight and flee. He wanted to slam his mouth shut, lock his jaws and turn away. But his teeth were broken and his limbs were bound, and the demon's fully erect penis slid past his lips without a fight. The hot flesh rubbed against the frayed nerves that lay open where his molars used to be, pushed the shards of enamel and congealed blood down his throat, and Dean screamed in agony and indignity. He wept openly as Alistair began calmly fucking his mouth._

_ "That's right, pretty, that's right, you love it," the demon chuckled. "Ohhhh, yessss, it's good. I like that when you scream. What you're doing with your tongue? Unnnh, love it. Yesss."_

_ Dean could barely hear him. He was panicking because he could not breathe, could not pull away. He was helpless. And this was happening. How could this…? Why…? …No… please… no…_

_ "Oh! Fuck! Yes!"_

_ The deep thrusts came harder and faster, bruising the back of his throat, and raking a new and undeniable pain across his misused jaws each time. Again. Again. Again. Can't. Breathe. Can't. Think. God. No. Please._

_ His oxygen completely cut off now as he lost himself to full-blown panic, Dean tried to gag, tried to expel every inch of the demon from his own body and failed. At last, the demon finally came, its foul semen spreading a salty substance into the open, caving wounds where his teeth had been. This acute element of hurt hit him like an electrocution, and Dean finally, mercifully, blacked out before he could finish screaming._

* * *

~ 1991 ~

_ He was going to be thirteen in the next month, and it was Christmas, and Dad was still not home. He had promised to be home for Christmas this time. He'd promised… And Sammy was starting to ask questions that Dean wasn't supposed to be answering. The nine-year-old kept probing him, knowing that he could easily break his older brother into giving him anything he wanted, be it food, fun or answers._

_ Was Dad going to be here?_

_ Yes, of course._

_ Where was he?_

_ On business._

_ What kind of business?_

_ He sells stuff._

_ What kind of stuff?_

_ On and on and on, and Dean's patience was wearing thin. The breaking point came when Sammy asked him flat out to tell him the truth about Dad… And Dean couldn't. That would be disobeying a direct order._

_ "Sammy doesn't need to know about the things we know," Dad had told him once._

_ So Dean couldn't, just could not disobey._

_ "Is that why we don't talk about…Mom?" Sammy asked softly._

_ In that moment, though it had been eight years since Dean had last seen her, his mother's face was suddenly brought forth, clear and bright in his mind. Sammy had never known her. He couldn't understand what it had been like, when she had used to lean down and hug him. She would sing to Dean and hold him close, and everything had felt safe. And she would never have missed out on Christmas. Dean knew that. The pain in his heart flared up, bright and terrible, and before he could stop himself he was shouting at Sammy._

_ "Shut up!" he bellowed. "Don't you ever talk about Mom! Ever!"_

_ Because Sammy would never understand. It still hurt, that spot in his heart that his Mom had occupied. He and Dad never talked about her. Uncle Bobby never mentioned her. Caleb and Pastor Jim never said a word, never breathed out that perfect selection of syllables that locked together to form his mother's name. Sammy didn't miss her at all. He didn't remember what happened when they lost their home and their family became a broken one._

_ In anger, Dean left then, only to return with food in hand to try to make up for the shouting._

_ "I know why you sleep with a gun under your pillow," Sammy told him, hazel eyes looking up at him sombrely, fear practically radiating from him. Dad's journal was lying open next to him on the bed._

_ Dean knew in that moment that he had failed his brother. It was one thing to know that there were monsters living under your bed. It was another thing to make your kid brother aware of that fact. Dad was gonna be so pissed at him when he found out…_

_ But he never showed up for Christmas anyway._

* * *

~ 1993 ~

_ He was fourteen and a month, and Sammy had had another nightmare. Dean's quiet voice had roused him out of the worst of it in the emptiness of their motel room. Dad was off again, hunting with Uncle Bobby in the woods of West Virginia. Sammy, muzzy with sleep and fretful from whatever visions plagued his weird little brain, managed to clamour into wakefulness long enough to assess where his brother was located. Weasel his way out of bed. And crawl under the covers with Dean, as he so often did on these nights._

_ Dean never minded these episodes, though he always made sure to tease his brother merciless in the morning. In the cold, loveless room that qualified as home for the next week, he didn't mind the familiar warmth of his little brother, nestled against his chest. The scent of Sammy, like fresh bread and butter, like the candy Dean had let him eat the evening before, like a dusty field in high summer. It calmed him as much as it did smallest Winchester, and they fell asleep spooned together, each one reassured by the safety of the other's presence._

* * *

~ Hell ~

_ Sam came for him again. And again. And… again. …And… again…_

_ "Dean," Sammy grunted hard, hair clinging to his face with sweat. "Yeah, I gotcha now, man. That's right. It's okay. You're doing so good."_

_ Dean's green eyes stared blankly upwards, trying to unwrite his own existence as his brother buried his cock inside of him. The sounds coming out of Sam's mouth were so salacious; Dean shuddered with disgust as tears sprang to his eyes._

_ "Ah, yeah, like that." He'd taken him dry, and Dean could feel the movements becoming smooth as silk as the sex became slick with blood. He was bleeding, deep from some part of his body that he had thought was completely his own. This was his. No one was supposed to have it. No one was supposed to touch it, touch him there. Least of all his brother._

_ Some wavering thought begged him to remember that it wasn't really his Sammy, his boy, his baby brother; it was just one of Hell's revolting minions playing the part. But it smelled like him. And it sounded like him, when he wasn't moaning deep into Dean's mouth like a wounded animal._

_ Sam leaned down and kissed him again, brazenly slipping his tongue past Dean's lips and penetrating into his mouth in time with his ass. His gangly limbs tangled around his older brother, and a hand gripping short dirty blond hair, holding him in place, allowed the younger man better leverage to steadily fuck him. Dean's legs were splayed apart, tied to what might have been rusty stirrups. He couldn't close himself off. Couldn't close his body. The sharply intimate pain spiked and shot up his spine with every movement that his brother made, and he could not help the way his body arched as it took the long cock over and over._

_ He could not see for his weeping._

_ "Shhh, 's okay, Dean," Sam sighed in his ear. "You want this. You've always wanted this. You want me inside you. It's safe when I'm inside."_

_ He didn't. He didn't want this. How could Sammy do this?_

_ Alistair's new method of torture was far, far worse, and far more effective, than anything Dean could have ever imagined. For this kind of hurt, there were no words._

tbc


	5. Chapter 5: Your Enemies & All Your Demon

Warnings: Sooo there's a bit of violence, and emotional/physical/sexual abuse contained in this chapter. Fair warning.

Disclaimer: In case anyone was wondering, no, I don't own anything even remotely related to Supernatural and its characters. I'm fairly certain we're all aware of that fact. Yes? Good! Please continue.

* * *

_Chapter 5: Your Enemies and All Your Demons_

Castiel watched the memories unfolding with dismay. Though his body carried no mass, no weight, in the confines of the pine casket, he folded his wings over the reanimating corpse, trying to hold his human tight. The memories continued, growing more and more vivid as they emerged and buried themselves inside Dean's heart. He bit his lip, blinking away tears, and waited.

* * *

~ 1995 ~

_ He was sixteen, and he had successfully killed his first vampire. The flames licked the body, air churning with smoke smelling obscenely like roasting pig. Sixteen. Other kids his age seemed to have such strange problems. 'Billy-Jo Bob didn't ask Bobby-Lee to the dance.' 'Allison had really bad acne.' 'Darryl dressed like he was from the 1980s.' Problems that seemed so simple to fix. While he, Dean, had just killed a creature that had once been human, a creature that had broken at least three of his fingers during the fight. And he was only worried about telling his Dad about the pain, because it could lose them time, set them back, keep him off the next hunt._

_ He knew that the hurt in his appendages was likely dulled from shock and adrenaline; it would hit him full force, once they were back in the car with Sammy and driving back to their motel. But for now, he was too exhilarated by the fight, too eager from seeing his father's proud look in that moment when he hit the creature just right, allowing John to finish it off. Perfect timing. Perfect fight. He wasn't going to bitch and moan about some stupid fingers and ruin that light in his Dad's eyes._

_ This was the life. This was the one thing he knew he was good at. His only true worries now were keeping his brother and his Dad alive. He decided the fingers weren't worth anyone's concern. He'd tape them up once they were home. And everything would be fine._

* * *

~ 1997 ~

_ He was eighteen, and he was watching Sammy sail through the air, having been knocked away by the werewolf._

_ "Sammy!" he howled, bolting towards where his brother lay momentarily stunned. He had told Sam to hang back, and provide cover fire only. He had told his brother that he was support, that he was not to take point. He had told him that he needed to stay out of the werewolf's line of sight, and let Dean and Dad draw it out into the open._

_ Sammy had done none of these things. After Dean took a heavy hit, his stupid little brother had reared up from his sniper's position, hollering and kicking up a fuss until the pale, moon eyes of the beast had turned his way. Shaking blood and sweat from his face, Dean had looked up just in time to see the clawed hand launch his brother across the clearing._

_ Now, he scrambled to Sammy's side, and turned just in time to unload three swift silver bullets into the werewolf as it loomed overhead. The beast dropped, and Dean was immediately focused on the fourteen-year-old boy's fallen body._

_ "Sammy?! Baby boy? Hey! C'mon, buddy, wake up for me, huh?" Dean pled, guilt weighing on his soul. How could he let this happen?!_

_ John was picking himself up from under the scree and debris that had briefly immobilized him when the werewolf had knocked him out. He was on his feet, roaring, and then blinked to see that the creature and both his boys were down. He raced over, and saw that Dean was on his knees holding an unconscious Sam. He fell to his knees, and began checking his youngest over, barely sparing a glance at Dean._

_ "What happened?" he demanded roughly._

_ "T-the werewolf. Ga'e me a good whack, 'n' Sammy broke cover," Dean answered, finding it hard to form his words. There was a pain in his skull that undulated and intensified with every beat of his heart, and he swallowed hard. Sammy's face was still and pale. His own head could wait._

_ "What the hell, Dean?! I told you to look out for your brother!" John snapped, hands running carefully along Sam's spine._

_ It was as though someone had shoved a bucket of snow down his back, and Dean felt a deep, sickening chill at his Dad's words._

_ "What the hell were you doing? Why'd you let this happen?!" John's blue eyes flashed up at his elder son, fury written on his face._

_ Dean shrank away as his father grabbed his brother from his arms, and he sat hard on his haunches. His head felt like someone was beating a watermelon with a blunt mallet, but his heart? His heart was worse. He had failed Sammy again._

* * *

~ 1998 ~

_ He was nineteen, and Sammy had been missing for ten days. Dean had slept for, perhaps, eight hours in that time, and, as far as he was concerned, that was eight hours too many. He did not deserve to rest, knowing that his brother was out there, counting on him to save him. He did not know who took his brother, or why, but he knew that as more time went by, the trail was getting colder and colder._

_ He sat in a diner, reading the newspaper. He was there, not so much because he was hungry, but because he needed the coffee. He drank cup after cup, pouring over every single newspaper of the day, studying, searching for some hint, some clue, some mention of either a missing kid found or of something supernatural in the area. Any kind of weird shit would do. Something that he could pin point, hunt and kill. That was the most likely explanation for his brother's sudden disappearance._

_ Two weeks almost, and Dad, out on his hunt, was not answering his phone calls. Two weeks almost, and Sammy must be so scared! What could someone have done to him? Unbidden, Dean's mind once again began playing a fresh list of worst-case scenarios. It was as though a part of him wanted to see where his breaking point was, and he had to carefully set his coffee down because his hands had started shaking so hard they wouldn't hold the cup. He felt his stomach clench, and he had to fight to keep down the few bites of toast he had taken._

_ The waitress, a humble woman in her forties, wandered by with her coffee pot. "You okay, honey?" she asked._

_ Dean forced himself to swallow, and nodded his head. He flashed her what he hoped was his 'winning' smile, and managed to croak out, "'M fine, thank you, ma'am."_

_ Not wanting to draw any more attention to himself, he paid up his bill, and wandered out to the Impala. "Sammy, please, please be okay. I swear…I swear I'm gonna find you," he muttered to himself, hand circling around the amulet his brother had given him so long ago. His eyes stung briefly, and he choked back a sob. Sniffling and clearing his throat, he started the car and drove back to the motel._

* * *

~ 1998 ~

_ He was nineteen, Sammy had been missing for eleven days, and Dean had not meant to fall asleep again. Once home, he had taken a quick shower in attempt to wake himself up. Climbing out, he had looked at himself in the mirror. His skin was pale, and seemed as thin as paper. The smudges under his eyes had deepened into hollowed and bruised shadows, his green eyes muddied with weariness._

_ He had barely slept, barely eaten, barely cared for himself for all this time and his body was beginning to rebel against him. He could clearly see where it had started dropping any remaining fat from his well-toned muscles, and he sighed. Grabbing a sip of water from the bathroom sink and scrubbing one of the over-bleached towels across his short hair, he wandered out to find clothes. In his pack, though, the only clean pair of underwear he found… _

_ Dean blushed._

_ He drew out the pink satin lingerie that he had nicked from Rhonda's the night she had played out her kinks with him. He wanted to put them on, but his stomach threatened to turn and make him puke up his breakfast again. He was not allowed to have luxury. He was not allowed to have soft. Not while his little brother was probably bound and gagged, hurt, probably crying, weeping, and just wishing against all hope that his big brother would come swooping in like Batman and saving him. No, he was not allowed to have anything he wanted. He was not allowed to have anything that could make him happy while his brother was in danger._

_ He had not meant to fall asleep. His body must have punched the clock on him, because when he woke up, it was to the sound of the door slamming._

_ He started awake, head shooting up as he tried to get his bearings. "S'm?" he mumbled._

_ What he saw, once his eyes were open, was John Winchester, standing in the doorway, duffel in hand, and blue eyes blazing. His father's eyes raked over Dean, taking in his naked state, the pink panties in his hands, and the empty bed where Sam was supposed to be. By the connection of his gaze and his posture, it was clear that he had received Dean's panicked messages. He had rushed back from the job, that much was obvious. John hadn't been due back for two more days._

_ "What the hell are you doing?" John asked, his voice quiet, dangerous._

_ Dean had seen his Dad on hunts. He knew that stance; shoulders drawn up tight, hands loose, fingers curling, feet slightly apart, weight centred on hips. He sat up hurriedly, instantly ashamed of his own nudity and being caught asleep._

_ "Dad, I—"_

_ "—What the HELL are you DOING?!" his father snarled, and it was that tone, that unforgiving, unrelenting disgust and fury, that drew Dean to his feet with startled eyes._

_ He tried to open his mouth to explain. He hadn't been slacking, or…well…he hadn't meant to. He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He knew. He knew that Sammy was out there, counting on him, and he hadn't meant to fail so hard this time. His throat never found those words, because John's fist found his face first. He was knocked to the ground, and he immediately spat blood as two of his teeth were jangled loose._

_ Before he could open his mouth to get a word out, his Dad had hauled him to his feet again and slammed him into the wall. He was sucker-punched in quick succession, how many times, he couldn't really seem to keep track. Blood was pouring freely from his nose, dribbling down the back of his throat, choking him slightly. As he raised his hands to defend himself, he was instantly struck in the liver, hard. The air rushed out of his lungs and, as weak as he was from the ordeal over the last several days, he collapsed to the ground again._

_ The beating continued, but, after a few well-placed hits to his temple, Dean somehow managed to disengage from the worst of it. It was someone else that was vulnerable. Someone else lying naked and bleeding on the floor. Someone else who had fucked up so bad as to deserve this punishment. Someone else begging for his Dad to stop. Someone else sobbing into the mouldy carpet. Someone else apologizing for being so irresponsible, and stupid. Someone else curling into a ball, making himself as small as possible until his Daddy would just stop hitting him._

_ He didn't know at that time, as darkness bled into his brain, that they would find Sammy three days later. Didn't know that his brother would be unharmed, not a scratch on him, smiling, proud, and just a little hungry. He also didn't know how easy it would be for his Dad to lie and tell his youngest son that Dean had managed to take on his own hunt while the kid had been gone, and for Dean to agree that that was what happened. He didn't know that he would sit in silence while his Dad lectured Sammy, admonishing him for running away; if he'd been around, he could have helped to protect his older brother from getting hurt. At that time, lying on the floor of the motel, naked but for the blood that coated his body and the bruises dressing his skin, the only thing he knew was that his heart was breaking again, and his brain was too stupid to find the words to explain why._

* * *

~ Hell ~

_ "Hey, Tiger," a gravelly voice greeted him._

_ Dean had woken, whole and unspoiled, once again, and he had been unable to stop the tears that came with consciousness. Any hope of maintaining his composure, grace under fire in the Pits of Hell, had fractured with his spirit as he was smashed and battered and used repeatedly. Time meant nothing now, and he could not begin to say how many times he had woken like this._

_ At the sound of that familiar voice, Dean's crying ceased. No. No, not him. Not here. Don't show him. Don't let him see. He can't see me, not like this! As John Winchester moved around into view, Dean shivered, hanging his head in disgrace._

_ These days, he was being kept on the rack, waking and… well… it wasn't really sleeping… but when he was resurrected again, he was always greeted as though he had just wandered out from his room, asking about bacon and coffee. His body was strung up, arms overhead, legs apart, trails of blood and semen blackening the space between his legs like the fanning tail of a magpie. He hung, used, like Hell's favourite concubine, and every demon and other poison devils liked to get its piece, now that it was common knowledge who the resident jizz trough was these days._

_ Alistair would always watch, sometimes just out of vision, but Dean always knew he was there. He could hear him laughing at him, whispering. When he moaned in pain, the demon told him it was pleasure. When he mewled and whimpered, the demon told him he was a slut. When he groaned, the demon told him he was enjoying this. And when they milked him… Oh god… When they forced him… he didn't mean to. He never meant to come. He never did. He did not want it, even when they told him that he did. He was sure he never wanted it._

_ "Jesus, boy," John sighed, his manner gruff. His lip seemed to curl with a slight distaste at the sight of him._

_ "Dad…" Dean rasped, his voice weak._

_ "What the hell have you been doing here?" John paced around him, raw and powerful like a jaguar._

_ He did not want to answer his father. Did not want to look him in the eye._

_ "What, are you whoring again?" John asked, sneering._

_ Dean's head snapped up and his green eyes pale and bilious in shock. How did he…? "Dad, they trussed me up like a Thanksgiving turkey! I can't get loose," he pled, silently begging to be spared this humiliation._

_ "You're making excuses again, boy. 'Trussed you up' – Yeah, and it looks like they got you good for it, too," John scoffed, surveying the wreckage with icy eyes. Taking in the damaged skin on his wrists and ankles, scraped red, painted with bruises however, the man's expression suddenly softened. He ran a hand through his coarse black hair as he often did when he was upset. A habit that Sammy had picked up without realizing. He looked at his son with his meagre and measurable equivalent of sympathy. "Got you good. You hurtin'?"_

_ Dean's cheeks reddened and he lowered his gaze, embarrassed. "Yes, sir," he muttered._

_ John moved in closer, and every sense memory that Dean had of the man came back with the force of Thor's fucking hammer. Barely two years… or… twenty… or fifty…? How long had he been here? It was long ago and fresh as yesterday that he had lost the man who was his hero, his rock, his mentor, his leader. With his father so close now, he could smell the myriad of scents that had meant security and control. Leather, soap, smoke, whiskey… Dust, wood, iron, engine oil, duct tape. A deep forest on a rainy afternoon. Endless cornfields in the heart of America come harvest season. His voice like a rumble of thunder and his eyes that flashed like a storm. All these elements blended into the perfect cocktail of his father, and it was like someone had tightened all the bolts down in his heart until they threaded and came undone again. Despite his deep mortification at his own weakness, he raised his head, staring longingly at the best Hunter the world had ever seen._

_ John looked into Dean's eyes, and squinted slightly. Then he raised a bottle of Jack to his lips, taking a long pull, and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Jesus, boy, you look just like your mother with eyes like that," he growled._

_ Dean frowned, feeling his heart wavering, a small opalescent fire that could have been hope burning like a candle inside him. The light of that candle flickered slightly. He watched as his father took another deep swig of bourbon._

_ The man frowned, and moved in until he was inches away from Dean's naked flesh. He reached out and caressed his son's cheek. "My poor baby," he whispered low._

_ Conditioning had taught Dean that it was bad when people touched his face. At the same time, it was his Dad. He wanted, needed, craved the affection. He just wanted someone to make things better, like it had been before Mom died, when he was still a kid. He held perfectly still, looking into the steel blue eyes, not daring to hope._

_ John leaned in and placed his forehead against his sons like he had when Dean was really little. Dean felt himself leaning in, sighing, the strangely intimate interaction causing him to relax imperceptibly. Then John swivelled his chin upwards and kissed Dean full on the mouth._

_ It was as though someone had filled Dean's stomach with smelted iron, burning his guts into a greasy puddle of tubes and juices until it solidified and ripped it's way out, beating his essence into the ground like a hammer and anvil. He father should not be doing this. His father should not – _must_ not – be _kissing_ him! He wrenched his head back with a yelp._

_ He should have known. This was Hell. Alistair was still watching. Amused as fuck, no doubt, that Dean would be so stupid as to buy this charlatan posing as his Dad. …And yet… It _smelled _like John. How could they take him with every single sense that he had? How could they replicate that special something that was ingrained in Dean's soul that would trick him so perfectly?_

_ "No!" Dean yowled, angry, refusing to cry in front of his Dad. Even if it was a Muppet version of Dad. He couldn't._

_ John just chuckled softly, in that way he did when Dean had once told him that he was afraid of the boogieman. He grabbed Dean by the back of the head with one hand, and wrapped the other one behind his ribs. "Easy, Tiger, easy," he soothed, and forced a kiss again._

_ As the tongue filled his mouth, he tasted the whiskey, tasted clove, tasted smoke. The kiss was far more passionate than any he had ever received, and his candle-flame of hope flickered, guttered and went out. John pressed his chest up against Dean's, low hand trailing down from his ribs to his waist and down. His fingers worked around the bones of his hip, digging into the most tender flesh, pulling him in possessively, forcing Dean's cock to grind against the front of his jeans._

_ Pulling out of the kiss slowly, John looked at Dean in a way that he had never looked at any man before, let alone his own son. His gaze was positively indecent, and Dean tried to shrink away, tried to pull into himself and disappear. Meanwhile his father – NOT father – was smiling and planting soft kisses along the corners of his incredibly pretty mouth._

_ "You're like your mother," John breathed._

_ Later, as Dean was spread open under his father's phantasm, face nestled into the dark hair of the man's chest, wincing and whimpering with the slow pull and push of the man's engorged cock inside him, he could no longer stop himself from crying. He wanted to remain stoic. He wanted to 'suck it up' but in this case… That really meant something completely different. The size of the man's penis, beating a gentle, sickening rhythm into him, even up to this point in Alistair's sick game of torture, he had never been so completely taken. And how dare he? How dare John fuck him slow?_

_ And John was hitting that spot, that private spot that belonged to him, and that no one was supposed to know about. All the while, John muttering softly to him about how he was weak, how he was a whore, how he took it like a woman, like his mother, how he was a cheap replacement in comparison, how this was the only thing he would ever be useful for, the only thing he would ever be good at, the only reason he could ever be loved…_

_ Dean would damn himself all over again, if it meant that all this would stop._

_ And he cried._

_ And he came._

_ And he prayed, again, fruitlessly, to be unmade. Better that he had never ever been born than endure this shame._

* * *

~ 2001 ~

_ He was twenty-two, and Sammy was leaving. He and Dad had been shouting and…well…screaming at each other for the last three hours, and Sammy was leaving. They had been fighting for so long that both had finally given up on petitioning Dean to take sides, like they usually did. He sat, silent, in the kitchen of their halfway house, listening distantly as items crashed into walls and the only living members of his family snarled and howled at each other like dogs out for blood, and Sammy was leaving._

_ He had helped raise that boy his whole life, had done his best to protect him from danger, from sickness, from sorrow, and fear, and Sammy was leaving._

_ His Dad had done everything in his power to provide enough money to keep the boys fed, to keep them sheltered, to keep his youngest safe, enlisting the help of his eldest son and giving him the one job to do. The one job to fuck up. And Sammy was leaving._

_ He knew his Dad did not really need him or want him around. He knew that. He was fine with the business partnership that they had going on. Even if he had broken his Dad's trust a few times, at least his Dad knew that his track record was, like, seventy-thirty keeping Sammy safe. John could at least trust him to fill in as a bodyguard or support for his youngest son when he was too busy on his own hunts. And now Sammy was leaving._

_ And when he left, he knew that John wouldn't stay._

_ And he knew that, for the first time ever, he would well and truly be alone in this world._

_ The shouting continued._

_ And Dean sat, knowing that his life was about to end._

_ Sammy was leaving._

* * *

~ 2005 ~

_ He was twenty-six, and he was going to get Sammy. He couldn't do this alone anymore. Not with his Dad out of contact for so long. John had ditched him, that was true, after Sam had left, but they had maintained regular telephone calls week to week, with John dispatching him to new and exciting places like Butt-Fuck- and Middle-Adjacent-of- Nowhere, America. He was worried that his Dad hadn't sent him any communiqué for this long a time._

_ He knew Sammy would hate him for showing up in his life again. He had called him once a month for the first two years that Sam had started going to Stanford. And then, as tensions grew higher, girlfriends grew more plentiful and friends became smarter, Sam had begun to duck his calls. Trying to respect his wishes – "I don't want you calling this number again, Dean." – Dean had kept his hand away from the speed dial, and had lived in his inexplicable exile ever since._

_ He knew he would be an embarrassment. He knew he would be unwelcome, and that Sammy would want nothing to do with him. But Dean needed the help, and he couldn't take the long lonely days on the road anymore. Days where he'd sometimes talk to himself in the empty cab of the Impala, just to hear the sound of a human voice. Let Sam be ashamed of his big, dumb brother. Dean would be damned if he let on that the thought bothered him. Nothing was going to stop him now. He needed his family back._

_ He had no way of knowing that ten days later he would follow his hunter's sense back into his brother's apartment. That he would end up carrying Sammy away from a burning building for the second time in their lives. And he had no way of knowing that he would blame himself for this, too._

* * *

~ 2007 ~

_ He was twenty-eight, and Sam was dead. He was… dead. Sam. His Sam. His boy. His brother. His companion. The only one who had ever cared when he was sick. The only one who knew how to keep him calm, how to talk him down from crazy. The only one who could see right through him, and still let him get away with his act. And he knew it was an act! Dean knew; he knew it was an act. He wasn't stupid; he just needed to pretend. If he pretended everything was fine, then eventually it _would_ be fine. Smile long enough and the funny would catch up with you._

_ But there was nothing to smile about now. There was nothing that was fine, and nothing would ever be fine again, and if this didn't work…_

_ His hands were bleeding as he dug through the gravel to bury his offering. If this didn't work… He would end it. There was nothing after Sam. There was nothing ever again. If this didn't work, there was no reason to breathe._

_ He was going to sell his soul to save his brother. It wasn't much of an exchange, really. Sammy was pure light, the safety, the peace, the quiet breath in the night that told him that it was okay to sleep. Sammy had always been there for him, even after Mom disappeared with the angels. He didn't have to say anything, either. He just had to be. He needed to 'be' now. He couldn't be dead anymore._

_ This had better work._

_ This had better work._

_ This had better work._

_ Take me._

_ Take me._

_ Take me instead._

* * *

~ Hell ~

_ Alistair knelt behind him, rubbing a finger gently but firmly along the rim of his anus, pushing against him at irregular intervals in order to watch as he squirmed. Dean's breath was ragged, mouth gagged with a metal bit that pinched against his raw and ripped lips whenever he uttered a sound. The demon's ministrations were sensual and sinister, confusing him as to whether he wanted to take his punishment or to vomit. This shit was nine kinds of fucked up, and he could tell that he was not doing so well in Hell anymore. Like he ever was…_

_ The disgust and self-loathing that he had felt was still prevalent in the back of mind. He never could forget what a repulsive human being he was; that was an understanding etched into his soul. He knew now that he belonged here, that there really was no redemption for a wretch like him. But the knowledge of his own putrescent nature was overshadowed now by a much stronger, all-consuming emotion._

_ Rage._

_ And that rage, crushing and burning like a black hole in his heart, was tempered with despair. No clear thoughts flashed through his mind anymore, no coherence, only fury and a few choice words to curse with._

_ Alistair smiled as he pushed his fingertip inside him, and Dean shuddered and groaned, the steel bit cutting into his lips. A trail of bloody saliva drooled down onto his shackled hands._

_ "You like this, don't you," the demon susurrated, his tone indicating it was not a question._

_ 'Fuck you!' he wanted to scream. 'The hell I do you sick prissy little fairy bitch!' All he could manage was an angry grunt around his gag, "Nguuuuh!"_

_ "What's that, precious? You'll have to speak up," Alistair chuckled. Behind him, Dean could hear the demon shifting around and the now familiar sound of his twisted hands rubbing at his cock._

_ "Nnnnch!" Dean hated that he was raising to the bait, but he was no longer capable of filtering himself._

_ "That's right, use your words. Ohhhh, you need me, don't you?" Alistair draped himself over his captive's back, skin on skin, stroking Dean's ribs lovingly. "You need me inside you?" The stroking hand groomed its way back along his flanks and to his hole again, and this time a finger penetrated, worming its way into him. Dean groaned and hung his head, scorching waves of anger licking into his vision._

_ "Ohhh, my sweet, you should have just said. But look at you; you're so tight today. Practically virginal, feel that?" Alistair wiggled the finger back and forth, rubbing his personal space playfully._

_ "Aaugh! Hhuah! Eeuu!" Dean's words were not effectively communicating at this time._

_ "Mnh, can barely move a finger around in there. You really think you could take a hard cock again? So early? We've barely started the day here."_

_ "Nguuh! Nguuh uuuuh aich huuh!" The bit cut into his tongue and he tasted copper flowering bright in his mouth. Shut up just shut up just shut up._

_ "You just can't wait, can you, baby?" Alistair hummed, leaning down to lick at his hole._

_ He tried to tell himself it was conditioning. That there was no way that he could avoid it at this point. But as the hot tongue slid up his crack and around the rim of his anus, his own cock, the betrayer, became immediately hard, and he felt himself begin to retch weakly. No god no god no no no god no, don't do this don't be this way don't do this don't be this way…_

_ The demon toyed with him for a few moments longer before Dean finally felt the swelled penis pushing insistently at his opening. Without realizing it, he began mindlessly screaming, at the demon and at himself. His protests, however, did nothing to prevent the onslaught, and he felt the head force its way through his tightened muscles. The piercing ache of his flesh tearing was nothing new at this point, and yet it was still fresh, still agony, and he screamed again like it was his first time. Alistair moaned, and pushed further, encouraging him to open up. Why was he still hard? Why was his own body responding? This was wrong. Why couldn't he just stop? Why couldn't he just stop being, and have his heart bashed in until it was nothing anymore? Why did he have to feel this way?_

_ "Ahhh, Dean! You are so tight," the demon hissed. He curled his hips and shoved himself further into him until his hips were flush with Dean's ass._

_ "Nguuuh… nguuuuh… nguuuhhh…"_

_ Alistair curled his hips, pulling out slightly, and pushing back in, fucking him slowly, deeply. "Unh! So tight!"_

_ "Nguuuuuuhhhhh… nguuhh…" Dean closed his eyes and willed himself to disappear._

_ "You know, you can keep screaming, if you like. You go on and keep telling me 'no,' but I know what you want, Dean. I know what you need. I always know what you need. You need me to do this to you. You need to feel this. You always knew you were never going to get better than this," Alistair chanted as he continued to take what he wanted._

_ At some point, the demon paused. Dean moaned and felt hot tears of humiliation as his own cock throbbed between his thighs. And he began to move his hips on his own, needy, hating himself, pushing himself harder to impale himself on the demon's erection._

_ "Mmmph!" If the demon was surprised, his voice did not show. "Yessss, that's good, Dean. Give it to yourself, let's get you what you want, hm? That's right precious."_

_ Dean felt his chest constrict with fury and bile. But he didn't stop. Harder. Harder. His hard-on ached, and he actively tried to angle Alistair into him to find that one relief. That one thing that could make this horrible moment complete, that could make it end._

_ He didn't know when it was that Alistair had produced his straight razor. But he felt it, when the blade grazed against his left side torso with the artistic stroke and scoop, like a paintbrush in the demon's hand. His entire body tensed, and he snapped his head up in alarm. There was no warning. Suddenly, the razor flashed, and he couldn't breath; everything was too hot, too cold, too dark. An agonizing twin to the first incision sprang out to his right, and Dean sensed rather than saw that there were now bloody deep gashes raked along either side of his rib cage. The pain was so intense that he was pretty sure his body had gone into immediate shock, forgetting even that Alistair had not broken his pace behind him. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't breathe…_

_ "Sorry, baby," the demon's voice said, somewhere above and behind him._

_ Where was he? The demon? Where?..._

_ There was a weird prying feeling at the edges of the new wounds, and Dean couldn't understand what was happening until his entire body jolted with lightning. Lightning? No. Pain… The worst pain… Gag forgotten, Dean howled, a harsh and broken sound. Alistair dug his fingers into the tattered flesh, lacing them into his rib cage, a stray nail here and there cutting into the soft lungs underneath._

_ "You're just so tight, I needed some love-handles."_

_ With that, Dean's body was yanked back onto the demon's cock, his whole frame flopping uselessly like a puppet. His fight completely gone, Alistair began to fuck him with wild abandon, crooning and crowing in triumph. Dean thought he could hear a counter-melody of sobbing and puling, but he didn't know where the sound was coming from. As his vision darkened, his whole body numb and useless, a single thought formed within his brain._

_ Anything. Anything to make it stop._

_ Anything. Anything to make it stop._

_ "Uuunnh, Dean, you're still so tight," he thought he heard someone say. "Just gotta loosen you up a bit, baby."_

_ Then a razor slashed viciously into him, tearing him open from anus, up his spine._

_ The world bucked and swayed. He felt himself vomit, and then consciousness flushed away like so much garbage and he was gone._

_ Anything… Anything… Anything to make it stop…_

Castiel gasped in shock, finally pulling away from the horror show of memories, unable to take anymore. He didn't understand it. Couldn't. How could anyone… _anyone_ do something like this? He had smote the unrighteous, he had killed innocents, he had laid cities to waste in the Name of the Lord, but this? How could another sentient being do something like this?

His vessel's body, although not fully materialized in this world it was present, and it was sending him a frenetic series of messages that he was unfamiliar with. The strongest physical feeling was centred around his stomach, and it felt somewhat dire. It was as though the body wanted him to expel every ounce of food or fluid it had ever held. This was strange, mostly due to the face that the angel had put none of these things inside of it. How could he… expel… what was not present?

The second physical sensation was that of a deep ache in his chest, as though his heart was being squeezed and his ribcage would not open enough to allow him to breath properly. It was uncomfortable. How did humans deal with these feelings? Would they get worse as his human body manifested on Earth?

The final sensation was the tears again. The stinging heat and moisture flowed involuntarily down his cheeks, and he tucked his forehead against the shoulder of his reanimated hunter.

Dean lay still, unconscious, the assembly not quite complete, his mission for the Will of God still an untapped dream. Every amorphous fibre of Castiel's essence wanted to remain with his human charge until he awoke, but, as he considered Dean's memories again, something the demon had said to him rose up in his thoughts and he felt his wings shiver with dread. Alistair had taunted Dean, calling the hunter's brother, Sam, Hell's 'boy king.' He had never heard the title, and it left him unsettled.

He needed some answers before he could guide his ward into Heaven's work. Stretching his wings slightly, he glanced again at Dean. There was no telling when he would awaken. Castiel firmly decided that he would hurry; get to Zachariah for some answers, and then he would race back to Dean's side. Hopefully the hunter would still be sleeping by the time he returned.

tbc


	6. Chapter 6: Like Any Blessing

A/N: So, the last few weeks have been crazy (crazy good/crazy busy). This chapter's a little short, for which I suppose I could apologize... if I felt so inclined... *shakes head* Craziness, I tell you. Gets you every time. I'll be working on the next bit soon. Hope all you readers are enjoying the story, or, at the very least, don't want to strangle me just yet. I know those last few chapters were kinda rough.

Disclaimer: In case anyone was wondering, no, I don't own anything even remotely related to Supernatural and its characters. I'm fairly certain we're all aware of that fact. Yes? Good! Please continue.

* * *

_Chapter 6: Like Any Blessing_

"Oh, back so soon?" Zachariah greeted him as Castiel's feet alighted on the roof of the business tower that his elder had chosen as his favourite slice of Heaven. All angels had a preferred paradise, a place they enjoyed when they were in need of respite from the constant war. This one belonged to a Wall Street banker who had expired in a massive collision betwixt the building and an aeroplane.

"Zachariah, I must speak with you," Castiel answered, trying and failing to keep the urgency out of his own voice.

The sly angel glanced back at him, gracing him with a ghost of a smile. "What about? You aren't neglecting your responsibilities, now, are you?"

"Of course not! He is resting. He is not ready to awaken just yet. I have been privy to his recollections of Hell, and…" Castiel trailed off, pursing his lips. He swallowed against that feeling in his stomach; Jimmy's memories helpfully supplying that it was called 'nausea. "While he was there, one of his tormentors said something that I think you should know."

His superior glanced at him and frowned. "And what was that?" he asked.

"You recall that Dean Winchester has a brother. Samuel Winchester," Castiel replied.

"If this is your big news, Thursday…"

"No!" he broke in hastily. "The demon called Samuel Hell's 'boy king,'" he whispered like it was a secret, voice faltering. He looked up at the older angel, eyes conveying his deep concern. "What did he mean by that? Is this something that will affect Dean's work? Does it have something to do with God's plan?"

Zachariah scowled and rounded on him. "That is not for you to ask, Castiel. You are a soldier, not a social worker. You take your orders, you don't question them, and you don't go looking for the bigger picture. Understand?" he snapped, the knell of his voice carrying the weight of eons. "You have, in fact, defied a direct order to come _back here_ with your inconsequential prying!"

Cowed, Castiel held his wings low, straining them down in a sign of submission. "Forgive me, brother, I… I thought…"

"You are not under orders to think," Zachariah interjected. "You are under orders to guide your ward, protect him and see that he does what he is told. _That_ is all. You are not our little go-between for every trivial fact found while you're trolling through some monkey's memories."

"I… Forgive me, sir. I should never have left my post," Castiel said, his vessel's shoulders bowing in shame. What was wrong with him? The Angel of Thursday, of Solitude, did not disobey orders. Did not concern himself with trivial matters. Though it pained him, he stretched his wings further, turning the alula down and inwards. It was the most abject gesture that he could perform, proving his surrender and supplication for mercy. "Please…"

Satisfied with Castiel's display, Zachariah nodded, folding his hands behind his back and smirking. "Don't let it happen again," he said. He stepped towards his inferior, and gave him a playful chuck on the chin. "Yes? Good."

Blue eyes looked up at the elder angel, and Castiel fought to hide the rush of emotions that washed through his body. Why would he feel anger? What was this feeling, like he hadn't actually done anything wrong and… like his insides balked at his own regret? _"Indignation?" What is indignation supposed to feel like? Is this resentment?_ Shocked by his internal defiance, his eyes widened and he ducked his face down, praying that Zachariah had not witnessed his struggle.

The superior angel was speaking again. "As it is, we are aware of Hell's interest in the younger Winchester brother. It just happens to be that it's not your concern," he said, wily mouth drawn into a thin line. "Your concern, which you have completely neglected with this excursion, is getting Dean Winchester on the path of righteousness again. Tell me, how were you planning on doing that, if he's wandering aimlessly down some country road in Iowa, unattended?"

Castiel's head snapped up at this. "What?!"

"Our little hunter is up and running. You weren't there to help him rise," Zachariah said, giving a careless shrug of his wings. "Hmph. I can only imagine how that must feel, clawing your way out of your own grave… No one there to greet you with a sunny smile on their face. But then again, he's used to being abandoned, isn't he?" He levelled a pointed look at Castiel. "Why shouldn't his own guardian angel desert him as well?"

There was an English word… What was that word? Mortification! It felt like his vessel's heart was going to break out of his chest, and Castiel straightened up, his wings spread, extending to the sky. "Forgive me, sir. I must attend to my duties," he said quickly.

Zachariah smiled indulgently and waved him off. "See that you do," he said.

Castiel had streaked off into the skies before the words finished leaving the other angel's mouth. He couldn't let Dean think that he had been abandoned.

TBC


End file.
